


Polaris

by Archangel67



Series: Destiel Week 12 [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hell, M/M, Rescue, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel67/pseuds/Archangel67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean suffers Hell at Alastair's hand but is rescued by a wave of celestial intent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polaris

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Destiel Week 12 / Day 4 / Challenge word: Cynosure

Hell wasn’t really the way that most people described it. Ask a kid to draw a picture of Hell and you’ll give some flames, a couple of spindly demons, maybe even a pitch fork or two. That wasn’t Dean’s vision of Hell – not even close. They must have gone through an awful lot of trouble to tailor torment to each specific damned soul, or maybe he was just special enough to get the white glove treatment. Funny. Nobody had ever given him any special treatment until now. Hell must have had a real soft spot for his troublesome ass.

Or a sadistic streak. Whatever. It was all the same in the end, wasn’t it?

In a word, Hell was cold. And empty. Crushingly, horrifyingly empty. Time didn’t work right down there but they kept him up in the middle of that nothing for what felt like forever. They let him scream himself hoarse, let him bleed out as he struggled against the chains that bit into his flesh. It was impossible to remember that what was being tortured wasn’t his body – his physical body was buried six feet under in the middle of a aspen copse where Sam had left it. It all felt real.

It _was_ real. As real as anything else down there.

At some point the scenery changed. It was still empty. Still cold. But now he had a friend in Alastair. Maybe friend was a poor title but after being alone for so long, he had been desperate for any attention he could get. There was nothing that frightened Dean as much as being alone. He would rather endure the pain that the demon inflicted on him than face the nothingness he had faced before.

For a time, anyway.

There were a surprising number of ways to have your skin peeled off and your entrails twisted up like balloon animals, and that was really the least of his problems. Alastair was the head honcho around these parts, or at least that’s what he claimed. Guy had a big mouth even for a demon. Liked to brag. Couldn’t keep his goddamn mouth shut. The asshole didn’t have a face of his own, opting to steal the smiles and voices of people from Dean’s past instead.

“I don’t want to hurt you Dean,” Sammy would say, all puppy dog eyes with a knife in his hand. “But you make it so _easy_.”

It was hard to talk, when you had no tongue. At best he could made angry gurgling sounds.

“You need us more than we need you,” Jo crooned, more malice in that voice than he had ever heard. “Just do what we say and it can be over right now. Just. Like. That.”

Slice. Twist. Tug.

“Always knew you weren’t any good,” Cassie scoffed. “Can’t believe I even ever touched you.”

Every day he was reduced to nothing. Completely obliterated. Piece by piece. Skin, muscle, sinew, bone. Anywhere but Hell he would have passed out from the pain, died of shock, bled out. But not in Hell – there he got to watch as he was stripped apart, dismantled like a busted up car. Alastair always left his eyes until right near the end. He wanted Dean to see how easy it was to undo him until he wasn’t even human any longer. Wasn’t anything more than a pile of torn guts and broken bones.

Days. Weeks. Months. Years. He lost track.

But it was only a matter of time before he couldn’t do it anymore. It wasn’t the pain that made him give in. It wasn’t desperation to be free. It was the same thing that always did him in. A sense of loyalty that even he knew was you-need-a-therapist level fucked up. Knowing what made you a pathetic sack of shit didn’t make it any easier to _stop_ being a pathetic sack of shit, unfortunately.

“You stop fighting it and maybe we’ll ease up on dear ol’ dad,” Alastair said almost sympathetically, smiling with John Winchester’s face, all the familiar lines and the crinkles around his eyes cutting Dean deeper than any of the instruments that the demon had used. “He knows that you’re here. It’s hard to hold on, isn’t it?”

His tongue was still intact today. “Go fuck yourself.”

Alastair was unfazed. “Even he doesn’t think you’ll be able to do it much longer. He’s got some real faith in you, kid. Today’s going to be the day, though. I can taste it. You just love proving him right.”

Dean opened his mouth again but a heavy, warm hand covered it before he could say anything else. Tutting disapprovingly, John’s mouth pressed into a hard line.

“You’re a failure, Dean. You’ve always been a failure and you’ll always be a failure. That’s just the way it is. You’re worthless, boy. You know it. I know it. Might as well do the _one_ thing you’re good at.”

He gave in that day.

For the first time in thirty years, he wasn’t bound in place. For the first time in thirty years, the blade was in _his_ hand. There was no gradual period of getting used to how it felt to be the one doing the dismantling – Alastair hovered, ever watchful. If Dean didn’t do it, Alastair would, and he would be threatened with being strung back up. So he did it. And God help him, it was easy.

At first he tried to picture it like he was working on his car. Pop the hood, remove the oil filter, pull off the fender, unscrew the bolts, deflate the tires, smash in the windows. The fantasy only went so far. Blood was thicker than oil. Stickier. The smell clung to him although for all he knew, his body was no more tangible than Alastair’s. Maybe his hands were the hands of former lovers, his barked insults coming from the lips of family members. He didn’t know who these people were.

He didn’t care.

…Maybe he liked it. He was good. Alastair never had to step in even once. It was a weird feeling, to find yourself taking pleasure in your job when you were wrist deep in what used to be someone’s rib cage.

For a long time everything went the way that it was supposed to. Just him, a blade, Alastair at his shoulder, some unfortunate sap on the rack who Dean knew would break within a few short days. What happened to these idiots after they begged for mercy, he wasn’t sure and he wasn’t particularly interested in finding out. He found new, interesting ways of doing the same jobs. Made a game of it. See how fast he could get them to scream.

He only got the feeling that something wasn’t right when Alastair left his side. There was a strange, inexplicable brightness overhead. Specks of light in the distance, like a vibrating constellation, drawing his eyes upward toward the commotion of it. Not specks of light, no. Forms. Vaguely outlined, human forms which were so far away in the void that he could only just barely make out arms and legs and… wings?

The constellation split apart, each of the seven bodies of light moving in a different direction. Several of them were met by incorporeal bodies of thick, black smoke – clashing violently. There was definitely something wrong. For the first time in years, Dean backed away from the rack and stared up at the one that was moving in his direction. The closer it came, the bigger it seemed, radiating brilliance like a small sun. He threw his arm up, letting out an almost animalistic sound of pain as he turned away from the light.

It didn’t do a damn thing. He had about as much substance as a plastic bag. The light engulfed him, surrounded him and shot straight through a body which he could have sworn was solid only moments before. He was transparent. A ghost of himself at best. Still weak despite all of the power he had exerted over all of those poor, ravaged souls. The warmth of the thing that held him was painful after years of cold.

_Look._

There was a voice, but nothing had been said out loud. It was purely in his head – soft, melodic, and slightly frustrated. Dean had never encountered a frustrated ball of light before. Then again, he had lost most of his memories some time ago, so it was hard to say. When he refused to turn to face the creature, he found himself being forcibly turned around. The hand on his shoulder seared into his cold skin but even when he cried out, the creature did not release him, it’s grasp on his upper arm firm.

_Look. You must look._

With a great deal of difficulty, he managed to open his eyes against the impossibly bright light. It had looked pure and white from far away, but he saw now that it swirled in that same way that an oil slick did. Subtle colors swirling against a field of chrome, the whole of it ringing a human form which itself was so lit up that it was impossible to make out any of its features, let alone if it was male or female. It hurt to look at, but it hurt to look away.

_You are a righteous man, Dean Winchester…_

“Like Hell I am. I’m a piece of trash.”

The form shifted, silent for a moment as if his reply had startled it. There was a sort of mental sigh that whispered through his mind before the creature stepped closer, fingers clutching his shoulder. Hard.

_You have done as you were required. We will take you home._

“…Home? Joke’s on you, Lite-Brite. I don’t have a home.”

_You must be willing._

“Well, I’m not. So back off.”

Again, the luminescent body moved and if Dean hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that it was glaring at him. Quite a feat for something that didn’t have any visible eyes. Without warning, it moved closer to him and he found himself being embraced by a… a thing made of pure energy, heat, and light. The entirety of it thrummed, an inescapable heart beat that sent waves of calm through his frail, transparent body. The knife clattered from his fingers.

For the first time in perhaps forty years, Dean Winchester felt remorse.

And for the first time in a _very_ long time, he felt loved.

_You must be willing._

With blood still on his hands, he clung to the one who had come to save him. The body was hard, unyielding, but the light which surrounded it swelled and stretched, wrapping him up like a set of massive, white wings. They held him close, protective, possessive.

“Just… take me home.”


End file.
